


Crime & Punishment

by pheonixgate1



Series: Tales of Eorzea [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Cyr Gets Hurt a Lot, Ishgard being Ishgard, M/M, Manderville Family Feels, Multi, PTSD, This is Mostly Crack Probably, casefic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 01:04:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14801385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pheonixgate1/pseuds/pheonixgate1
Summary: Ishgard comes looking for its missing Inquisitor. Can Gentleman Inspector and Zombie Overlord Hildibrand Helidor Maximillian Manderville save the day? Let's find out.





	1. Old Wounds

**Author's Note:**

> Hildibrand with a hint of seriousness. For people who like liquor in their chocolate.

“Well, well. Still alive boy? Are you ready to repent? Not that the Fury would grant salvation to the likes of you.” 

The person on the pallet cracked a bleary blue eye at the voice, barely acknowledging the words let alone the spittle now dripping from his mangled hair. Dressed only in a thin cotton jerkin and pants, he’d been left to mercies of his cell—the cold stone sapping the warmth of his body and filling it with eternal Coerthan winter. He didn’t flinch when he was grabbed by the arms and drug off the pallet onto the floor, his legs no longer capable of standing.

 

“Come now, maggot. It’s time for your sufferings to cease. Isn’t that worth getting up for?”

 

It was indeed. But due to the cold and abuse, his body had stopped heeding his commands. He received a kick for his reticence, but when it became obvious no miraculous motivation was forthcoming, an order was given and he was heaved upright with a curse.

 

“Oh what a fine specimen of Inquisition you are. Thought you lot were supposed to have spines of steel and a will ‘o fire second only to Halone, herself. Bah!”

 

His lolling head was slapped hard enough to nearly jerk him from the grip of whoever was holding him up, but his momentum was corrected before he could meet the floor again.

“’Spose you’re not really an Inquisitor, are you? No. Just a spineless, craven whoreson heretic.”

 

When it became clear he neither had the capacity nor the inclination to respond, another snapped order and his erstwhile transport began to half-drag, half-walk him out of his cell. If he’d had his wits about him, he might have marveled at the strength of the knight who seemed to bear his mostly-dead weight with ease. And strangely, with care.

As it was, Cyr was no longer connected to the outside world. He had once taken an interest in survival, but now he waited quietly for the end in a strange cocoon of numb acceptance.

But somewhere deep, something young and vibrant wept.

 

*

 

“Son, when we get to Ishgard, you’re going to see an ugly thing. I know it’ll be hard, but if you want this hair-brained scheme of yours to work, you’re going to have to endure and do naught against it. The milksop’s survival hinges on it. Do ye understand?”

 

Adjusting his grip on his charge, Hildibrand Heliodor Maximillian Manderville, Inspector Undercover, concentrated on moving as carefully and efficiently as possible; hoping the armor he wore concealed the tremor in his limbs. He held fast to his mother’s wisdom, but his body struggled to contain the dire need to correct the horrible wrong done to this man. Starting with the knight who had so brazenly spat on him.

It was only the warning that any misstep on his part could have mortal repercussions that stayed his hand. That and his Dearest Mother’s wrath. It was no secret that she had grown fond of Cyr. It was obvious in the way he cowered from her, that she cared for him like a second-son. How devastated she would be should the worst happen!

 

His thoughts were interrupted by the impact of rotten fruit, which squelched messily against his armored shoulder.

 

A sizeable crowd had formed around the path from the Gaol to the Tribunal. It seemed that while the war between Dragon and Ishgardian was over, the war between Heretic and Faithful was ongoing. Verily, the people were most vocal in their castigation, though their words did not find their mark due to Cyr’s catatonic state—nor did their produce, thanks to his subtle maneuvering. 

He gave a wink to Nashu as she waved heartily from the crowd, though his face-plate (now dripping with what smelled like tomato) allowed none of it to show. She had artfully concealed herself among the rabble, and they were none the wiser for her presence. She had become a master of subterfuge under his careful guidance. His heart swelled with pride as he deflected a turnip from its intended course, back into the crowd. The impact was audible, even through the cacophony.

There was a distinct reduction in the number of projectiles after that. Especially of the root variety.

They reached the Tribunal at a frustrating snail’s pace, but there’s no helping it. Not with the crowd still hurling vegetables (though at a much reduced rate) and Cyr’s inability to take even the smallest of steps unassisted. He keenly felt the urge to publicly declare the man’s innocence swell within him. It took every bit of his impressive discipline to leave the masses to their ignorance and instead assist with Ishgardian due process.

Of course, there was no cause for worry. His brilliant plan of painstaking deduction could not fail! 

(But if it did, there was always Nashu).

 

*

 

If the members of the Supreme Sacred Tribunal found her presence unsettling, they wisely kept their own counsel. 

Julyan had tried using her name, and when that was unsuccessful, her frying pan to gain access to the proceedings. While the pan certainly got things done faster, it was actually Ser Aymeric who had argued her right to take part (after she had launched a couple of his smart-arsed knights into a snowbank somewhere in Central Coerthas).

Her son had some brilliant and no doubt completely off-base deduction that he expected would save the day, but Julyan knew better. Cyr might have once been an Inquisitor, but beyond a love of rules and order, he’d been a piss-poor one. Certainly not worth the extradition and this farce of a trial, even if he had learned at the knee of one of the Grand Sers.

No. Something about this whole thing didn’t sit right. Cyr was indoctrinated as deeply as any devout. He thanked Halone at every meal. Quoted scripture from memory. And yet, they had his confession of Heresy. Allegedly. 

And they’d put him through the ringer, when he’d gone with them quiet as you please .

It was enough to set her ablaze. Her aura lit the room and she heard the slide of metal as the assembled knights drew steel in reaction. As if that’d do anything. Julyan had better blades in her kitchen and more skill besides.

 

“All of you stand down this instant! My Lady Manderville, if you’d be so kind as to… stop…luminescing? -I feel I must remind you that your presence here is a courtesy and not a right afforded by law.”

 

She looked below at her son, splattered with slop and doing his best not to burst and realized she was setting a poor example. With great effort she got a reign on her temper and the angry red energy dissipated—to the relief of the spooked knights.

 

“Aye. My apologies, your Grace. Let’s get on with it then, lest the lad expire before his sentence is heard.”

 

Cyr had yet to acknowledge his surroundings or… move at all really. She trusted Hildibrand to kick up a fuss should his charge stop breathing, but she doubted anyone would call a Chirurgeon at this point. She cast a furtive glance at the door. That lordling-friend of his had caught wind of something foul as well, but she’d seen neither hide nor hair of him since he’d tried to dissuade her from getting involved. 

If the spoiled swot had made any headway, the time to present it was at hand.

 

“Very well. We are gathered here, in light of the Fury’s grace, to-“

 

As if on cue, the doors of the Tribunal were thrown open, and said lordling strolled in with purpose. With a flourish he straightened his glasses and seemed to focus on the assembled Magistrates but Julyan had seen the way his eyes had flitted over Hildibrand and Cyr.

 

“Honorable Juries, it is with regret that I must inform you that this sentencing cannot lawfully be carried out. I have discovered proof that renders the accused’s testimony and subsequent confession inadmissible. By this evidence, I have no other recourse than to submit a declaration of mistrial.”

 

Before there was even a confused murmur, one of the Assembly shot up and banged a fist on the bar.

“How much more nonsense must we tolerate? First an outsider and now a middling noble dares interrupt this Hearing? This has become a mockery, and I for one-“

 

“-Are the very reason why it cannot continue, High Inquisitor Arquette.”

 

That seemed to do the trick. Whatever righteous indignation the other man had drawn himself up with seemed to drain quickly, along with some of his pallor. Seeing as the High Inquisitor had yet to regain his composure, the Head Magistrate spoke in his stead.

 

“On what grounds do you make this Declaration, Inspector?”

 

The lordling, Briardien she recalled, did not quail under the collective gaze of the Tribunal. He nudged his glasses up again, and met the question with polite indifference. As if this were High Tea and not a man’s life hanging in the balance.

 

“On the grounds that Cyr Blyme is not just a ward of House du Monde, but High Inquisitor Arquette du Monde’s biological son. You are aware of the Law which states that members of the same family may not accuse, try, or prosecute one another for any crime, independently or otherwise?”

 

The room as one focused on Cyr, and his very apparent Hyur ancestry. The High Inquisitor, sufficiently recovered (and very obviously Elezen), scoffed at the announcement.

 

“One has to question the so-called genius of someone who cannot discern the most common of race identifiers. –Even those of mixed ancestry have obvious traits that can be traced back to the parents and its plain to everyone in this room that the Accused is fully Hyur in origin.”

He looked to his peers, his voice oozing contempt once more.

 

“I would also like it to be recognized that the Law in question does not extend to wards of the State. Only those related by blood or marriage are subject to this ruling, as it was once fashionable to gain inheritance by means of heretical forfeiture. In light of this, I submit a motion for Inspector Briardien’s gross misinterpretation of the law to be stricken-”

 

Briardien held up a gloved hand, staying the Inquisitor’s rejoinder. He motioned to Hildibrand.

 

“Knight, pray bring the Accused forward for inspection.”

 

As her son carefully shuffled his charge closer to the Adjudicator’s Box, he cast his glance up to Julyan.

“Lady Manderville. You are full-blooded Hyur, are you not?”

 

She peered at him, still wondering where this was all going.

“Aye. As far as I’m aware.”

 

Briardien nodded and motioned to her as well.

“Very well then, might I trouble you to join me so that I might enlighten this most honored Tribunal to a medical mystery two decades in the making?”

 

She nearly groaned. Medical mystery? Her son and Briardien were two peas in a pod, all right.

 

Julyan steeled herself as she made her way down to the floor. Whatever point the boy was about to make was likely going to give her a headache and it wasn’t the first time she mourned the fact that her skill at medicine ended at liniment.

Although that would likely be easier to swallow than any of this.


	2. Chapter 2

Briardien had little doubt that his deduction would be the instrument of salvation in case of Cyr Blyme. The High Inquisitor continued to deny him at first, but upon closer inspection, Cyr’s ancestry was not so apparent as everyone had come to believe.

 

It was amazing what lengths certain families went to hide their indiscretions. Like bob the ears of their children, like dogs.

 

 

But while proving Cyr’s lineage, or at least his paternal line, had been easy; solving the riddle of his incarceration was not. Nor was the ordeal completely over. While his confession could not be used, nor could the original accusation—it was merely a formality. With his status, even in scandal, the High Inquisitor could conceivably have someone outside of the family make the allegation and was likely doing so as even as the thought crossed his mind.

 

Currently, with the charges ruled as being inadmissible as well as any testimony therein, Cyr had been released. Thankfully without any bumbling from Hildibrand.

 

 

Still, as they sat in the former Inquisitor’s recovery room the _why_ of it still weighed on everyone’s mind.

 

 

“I don’t suppose it matters really. What matters is how we are going to deal with what’s in front of us. There’s got to be some way to get out of this free and clear. –I’m all for taking the boy and running but being on another continent didn’t exactly stop them the first time, did it?”

 

The Lady had the right of it. Cyr was free to leave as soon as he was physically able, but the High Inquisitor had already made it clear that distance was no great obstacle in his quest to convict his son. Briardien had turned his great intellect on its head trying to figure out why the man would foster his own son as a foundling, only to see to his demise now.

 

 

At this, Hildibrand spoke up, rousing his assistant who had fallen asleep beside him.

 

 

“Mother, while our previous time in Ishgard was most enlightening, there is still much to be learned. The answer to our quandary lies somewhere within the heart of the city. With the people. We are not without friends. I will speak to the Baron. And Nashu shall put her clever ear to the street.”

 

He stood. “Come, my lovely assistant! There is much to do and time is of the essence!”

 

The Miqo’te, Nashu, chirped a ‘Yes, Inspector!’ before cheerfully following, full of energy for having just awoken. Briardien shook his head. He didn’t bother telling them that anything the former or current Baron Fortemps knew, or anyone else for that matter, would be considerably less than what he already knew but the prospect of having the man out of his hair stayed his tongue.

 

 

Lady Julyan watched her son and his companion leave, then turned to him with a sigh.

 

“Don’t mind my boy. He’s worried, is all. You obviously know more about the law here than we do. You’ve got to have some ideas rattling around in that head of yours, so let’s hear them.”

 

 

He straightened his glasses. Focusing on clearing young master Cyr was the most logical course of action, and also the easiest—save for a few minor obstacles.

 

“Well now that the charges have been formally dismissed, more specifically the confession, we have a few more options at our disposal should a new allegation be leveled against our friend here. Foremost being the right to declare a Trial by Combat. –I trust that outcome will meet to your satisfaction.”

 

The Lady’s grin would not have been out of place on a blood-stained battlefield.

 

“Aye, you’ve the right of it. Can’t wait cross steel good and proper instead of knocking tin men around. –But you’d have mentioned it already if it were that easy. So, what’s the catch?”

 

He sighed. If only he had more data…

 

“The ‘catch’ is that in order to invoke a Trial by Combat, the Accused must contest the charges, and declare their intent before the Tribunal. Being an Inquisitor himself, Mister Blyme would have known that a confession would have made this right unavailable to him, and yet confess he did—bearing the full-brunt of the consequences. So it begs the question: will he do so again? And why did he forfeit that right in the first place?”

 

 

They both glanced at the man in question, pale and drawn in his magicked slumber.

 

 

“I suppose we’ll just have to wait until he can tell us his self, won’t we? –Assuming Hildibrand doesn’t dig up something in the meantime, hm?”

 

 

Briardien did not bother to calculate the likelihood of that blundering oaf doing anything so useful. Instead he excused himself with a bow and went to avail himself in the Scholaticate kitchens, where a light repast awaited along with the curiosity of his infinitely more capable younger sibling.

 

 

*

 

 

“Well lookit here, lads. We got ourselves a stray kitten. What’s a cute little thing like you doing wandering all alone, eh? Looking for some meat to fill your belly?” They shared a chuckle. “We got plenty o’ that for ye.”

 

 

Nashu had nary seen so scraggly a bunch, but the Inspector always said looks could be deceiving. Maybe one of them had the vital clue they were looking for. They were certainly more friendly than most.

 

 

“Ah no thank you. But I would like to ask you some questions. It’s very important and it won’t take long!”

 

 

They jostled each other a bit before the leader spoke again: “Well lass, seeing how it’s _so important_ feel free to ask away, but its mighty poor manners to speak with your mouth full, innit boys?”

 

Some of the men began to break the line, grinning and chuckling as they circled.

 

 

She sighed. Having enjoyed the auspices of the Baron’s hospitality, she’d hoped Ishgard to be above such nonsense. But it seemed even the Holy See had its Pearl Lane. Thankfully it looked to be under construction already, so some additional damage shouldn’t be too noticeable.

 

 

“Now then, be a good kitten and—what have you got there?“

 

 

*BOOM!*

 

 

*

 

 

Aymeric felt a headache coming on. Then he felt a deep rumbling under his feet and realized that things were definitely going to get worse before they got better.

 

 

“What in Heavens name was that?!”

 

 

Lord Edmont, a Baron no longer but unable to shake the moniker it seems, looked to the door in alarm even as Lucia was ordering knights to investigate. The outlander Inspector, Hildibrand, looked thoughtful for a moment then seemed to have an epiphany.

 

 

“I believe that would be my assistant, Nashu. Worry not, my friends. She has a rare gift for explosives and delicate foresight into their use.”

 

 

Aymeric blinked at that. He wasn’t sure how anyone who used explosives could have ‘delicate foresight’ but he was certain he was going to find out, like it or not. Still, it would have been nice to know early on that the Assistant in question was armed with the sort of weapon that could make the very flagstones tremble.

 

 

Lord Edmont looked at the Inspector aghast.

 

“Don’t tell me you let that poor girl out in the streets, _alone_? Her kind are not well-known here. What if she went down to the Brume-”

 

 

He cut himself off when he realized, just as Aymeric did, that _of course_ she had gone to the Brume. She’d gone into the Brume and blown something up and Hilda was going to come down on them like a _storm_ …

 

 

The Inspector was neither cowed nor chastised.

 

“Your concern a testament to your character, Baron but with Mother waiting diligently for Cyr to awaken and I, treating with the both of you here, there was little choice. Our concern rests with our fallen comrade at present. My lovely assistant is more than capable of defending herself as you will soon find.”

 

The Inspector resumed his inane questioning as if nothing untoward had a happened. Aymeric resigned himself to it with the vow that he would do everything in his power to see this situation resolved, if for nothing else than to ensure the Manderville’s no longer had business within Ishgard’s borders.

 

They and their ordnance-carrying wards, Halone take them all.

 

 

*

 

 

“Ow! _Ow!_ Please let me go, Miss. I’ll go to wherever you’re taking me— _OW!”_

Hilda did not let go. She kept her furry prisoner between forefinger and thumb and ignored the weak attempts at extrication. Beyond the obvious discomfort of their travel arrangements, the Miqo’te girl looked no worse for wear though it was obvious she ran afoul of some of the Brume’s more ‘aggressive’ hospitality. Normally Hilda had no qualms with a lady defending herself but not at the cost of an _entire bleeding tenement._ Where had she even been hiding them? A blast of that magnitude had to have come from something the size someone’s head and the girl was wearing a short-robe and tights.

 

 

“Oh aye. You certainly _will_ be going where I’m taking you and once you’re there you can blow something of _his_ up.”

 

 

The girl whined piteously while she awkwardly tried to keep pace, her head at an angle as she tried to lessen the pain. Thankfully they didn’t have far to walk, but the pace was already slower than her anger liked due to the lack of coordination.

 

However, the sound of her boot when it kicked in the door to the Congregation was most satisfying as was the obvious look of dread from Aymeric (and to a lesser extent, the Baron).

 

“Inspector, please help me!”

 

She let the girl go, finally having something (or someone, rather) which to properly vent her ire. The miqo’te nearly tackled the strangely dressed outlander, who looked her over in concern before turning to Hilda. He seemed as though he might have some words for her, but froze once he took in the state of her clothes.

 

A moment of perfect silence passed as her leathers, normally black but now gray due to dust and soot, painted a disturbing picture to all of what was to come.

 

“ _Inspector_ , is it? Mind telling me what in the Hell you thought you were doing sending that hapless little chit into the streets with naught but _incendiary_ protection? Not sure how they do it where you’re from, but here we don’t arm ourselves with what can take out an entire block of good, sturdy homes.”

 

She glared at Aymeric for good measure, but judging by his pinched look this was well beyond his ken. At least that Lieutenant of his had been quick to send aid. There’d be no sleeping out in the elements tonight if they were quick enough.

 

Lord Edmont, ever the peacemaker, interjected.

 

“Inspector Hildibrand, his methods notwithstanding, is investigating a case of some importance. The incident in the Brume was an unfortunate oversight, never the less you shall have aid of House Fortemps along with what succor the Temple Knights can provide.”

 

“Truly? Does that extend to providing shelter? Because it will be a cold night for people that we just dug out of their homes otherwise.”

 

To his credit, Lord Edmont acquiesced immediately with the aside that he speak with his son, the acting Baron. He asked who he might speak to amongst her people to make the necessary arrangements. Her ire temporarily forgotten in the face of such a boon, she gave him the information he required and he excused himself to make arrangements of his own.

 

 

She turned to the Inspector, who looked like he just might be getting an inkling of what he’d unknowingly unleashed.

 

 

“Alright what’s this all about then?”


End file.
